Introducing Aimee…

AIMEE: My phone rings as I’m on the way to the subway for work, running late of course, always, always running late. “Not to stress you out…,” my bridesmaid Jennie launches in on the other end. I know it’s bad if she’s using that sort of ominous construction. She’s planning a wedding too. We’ve been pals since second grade and we’re getting married a month apart, what are the odds? So she understands the importance of not freaking out the bride. She’s doing her best hostage negotiator/ talk-the-crazy-person-down-from-the-ledge impersonation. “Not to stress you out…but I haven’t gotten my dress yet and I thought I’d better tell you. When did you say some of the other girls got theirs?”

“Um, TWO WEEKS ago, even the one that had to go to Florida already got there!” And now I’m starting to sweat–which is helpful because it’s only 20 degrees out, so at least I’m not cold anymore. I slam my forehead with my open palm, just imagining the calls I’ll have to make to the dress shop in Boston (where I ordered the dress with my sister/maid of honor, who lives there, to save on sales tax–clever, no?) to trace the package. And I imagine Jennie standing up there at my wedding in a shade of black that’s totally off from the other girls because the whole batch of dresses is supposed to be dyed together so they match. (OK, I probably couldn’t tell the difference, but it’s the principle of the thing.) And I just don’t need to have more calls to make sneakily from the Duane Reade in the lobby of my building so no one in the office has to hear me attempting to unleash some wedding whup-ass–which I’m not even any good at doing–from my cubicle.

“I’m going to have Mike (her fiance) check before he goes to work,” Jennie continues. “The package room is never open when I’m home and they’re idiots in there. I’m missing some wedding gifts too like…my Kitchen. Aid. MIXER!”

“NOOO!” That sucker costs 300 bucks and is one of her favorite registry items. Her cookies are her life.

“I know,” she says, like there’s been a death in the family. “Why couldn’t it be, like, a set of towels or something? It has to be the mixer. I have to call Macy’s. But there’s a chance it’s in there somewhere and the dress too. I don’t want you to worry. Last time I went looking for a package the guy behind the counter said it wasn’t back there and he was leaning his arm up against something and it turns out THAT was my box. What’s wrong with people?”

“People are idiots.”

“Fools!” she says, laughing. “But I’ll let you know as soon as I hear! Promise!”

I arrive at work just in time to check my email before our morning meeting. A message from Brian: I didn’t exactly get around to discussing the highly taboo “number of invitations” issue last night, but no worries, a new potential disaster has taken its place. Subject line: “I’m confused.” Message: “Were you planning to leave my parents’ names off the invitation? Seems like a slight. Whose idea was this?”